Fail Safe
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Free to Be You and Me tag: They do more than just keep each other human.


**Fail-Safe**  
K Hanna Korossy

The clerk at the rundown gas station was surprisingly hot, and flirtatious. The little mini-mart had jerky and candy and some powdered donuts that only looked a little stale. And as he sauntered back out of the store, Dean saw his brother waiting for him by his car, and for a moment, all was right in his world.

Then he saw Sam glance up, spot him coming, and quickly say something into the phone he was holding, then slip it into his pocket. And his heart sank all over again.

"Who was that?" He tried to make the question casual, but nothing was really casual between them these days. Not _yet_, Dean tried to amend, but it was hard to make himself believe that the easy-as-breathing camaraderie they'd had most of their lives wasn't gone for good.

Sam shook his head, eyes diverted. "Nothing. It's nothing."

Dean's hand curled into a fist around the jerky in his pocket. He knew his face was probably as stiff as his tone when he spoke. "Huh. Thought we were past that." He nodded, mouth curling up coldly. "Guess not. Good to know." He reached for his door.

"Dean…" Sam raised an arm and let it drop like he was exasperated, like he had any _right _to be exasperated. But then he lowered his eyes and voice. "It's just…I had a job. While we…" He made an abortive move that Dean guessed was supposed to refer to them being apart. "At a bar. They were just calling to ask where to send my last paycheck."

Dean blinked. As far as secrets went, that was… "Wait, you were _bartending_?"

Sam's lips twitched. "Not exactly. I was a busboy."

Dean laced his fingers together on the roof of the car with a frown. "So let me get this straight—you finally get out of hunting, get a chance at that normal apple-pie life…and you go bus tables at some honky-tonk joint? Seriously?"

Sam shifted, then leaned a shoulder against the side of the Impala, his eyes on the distant road. "I'm officially dead, remember? I can't go back to school, if the angels and Lucifer would even let me. And…" His face scrunched a little at some memory.

"What?" Dean asked quietly, really wanting to know.

Sam paused a moment, then got into the car.

Dean took a second but finally climbed in, too, making no move to turn his baby on.

Sam sat staring at the windshield, and Dean didn't rush him. He had a feeling his brother would have normally clammed up at this point, probably wouldn't have even told him this much a few months before. But nothing was normal these days, and Sam knew he—they—couldn't afford any more secrets.

Sam finally started talking, low and heavy.

"Steve Thrush and Hank Eastland—remember them? Hunters out of Little Rock? They found out from some demons about me, about what Ruby and I…" His jaw flexed. "They tried to…" He looked down at his lap.

Dean found his mouth unexpectedly dry. "Kill you?" He couldn't make light of the idea of Sam being murdered.

Sam shook his head, his thumb idly worrying a rip in his jeans. "Make me drink some blood."

Dean swallowed. "Oh."

Sam looked him in the eye. "I didn't do it, Dean. Even when they forced it in my mouth, I spit it out."

"I believe you," Dean said quickly, and wasn't all that surprised to find he was telling the truth. He had worried about Sam relapsing, especially when Dean had come charging around the corner in that store to find Sam staring, transfixed, at a bloody knife. Maybe whatever had gotten them out of St. Mary's Convent had reset Sam's body—and Dean still wasn't even sure about that—but addiction was as much psychological as physical. Remorse was a powerful motivator, however, and Sam had it in spades.

They both did.

He cleared his throat. "You okay? They didn't…?" A question asked days too late, but whatever.

Sam softly scoffed. "I've had worse bar fights, dude. But they threatened this girl I worked with so I was gonna take off after that, and then Lucifer…"

"Yeah," Dean acknowledged quietly. He knew the rest.

He'd have to ask Bobby to keep tabs on Eastland and Thrush. Those two knew too much already, and they'd have it in for Sam now. Dean didn't want any more surprises.

But for now, he pulled in a breath and turned the engine over. Her soft rumble almost always made him feel better. "Still. Busboy, really? You couldn't at least be, I don't know, a bouncer or something? Go all Patrick Swayze on the drunk and disorderlies? Girls dig that kinda thing."

Sam huffed a laugh. "That wasn't a problem, man."

"Yeah?" Dean started to grin. Sam's laughter had the same effect as his baby's purr. "Sammy, you dog!" He nudged his brother with an elbow. "I want details, dude."

Sam just flushed and smiled.

Dean let it go, pulling out into the road with a smirk. Now _that_ kind of secret he could handle just fine.

00000

In some ways, it was like starting at the bottom of the corporate ladder, Winchester style. But instead of working the mailroom or doing filing, Sam did the laundry, made the food runs, washed the Impala. He was already tired of being the errand boy in the relationship, not even a toss of the coin or a round of rock-paper-scissors to make it equal. But then he remembered again the feel of his hands tightening around his battered brother's neck, and Sam swallowed hard and did the grunge work without a single complaint.

Today it was tackling the hardcore laundry, the strata at the bottom of the bag that was bloody or slimy or mud-encrusted and needed extra attention. Dean had accumulated a congealed pile while Sam had been gone, and it would need salting and burning if left much longer. Sam took a deep breath, then held it as he reached in and pulled out disgusting handfuls of material.

Jeans that looked like they'd been dragged along a forest floor: check. A t-shirt that was streaked with something blue and flaky: check. Boxers that were—gross. Check. A hoodie of Sam's? Weird. But it reeked of mildew, so Sam grimaced and added it to the pile: check. And at the bottom…

He frowned and pulled out a plastic-wrapped lump. They only took precautions like that with toxic items, stuff that was dangerous to touch, like fairy dust or werewolf slobber. Sam frowned as he held up the bag. "Dean?"

Dean was stretched out on his bed and, surfing God knew what on the laptop, didn't even look up. "Yeah?"

"Dude." Sam reached over and smacked his foot. When Dean gave him an annoyed glance, Sam held up the bag questioningly.

"Oh. Vamp blood. Make sure you wear gloves."

Sam's frown deepened at that bit of information. He gingerly opened the bag and peered inside, then reached in to poke at it. "It's all over the shirts. Both of them."

"Which is why it's in the bag," Dean said in the tone he would've used with a five-year-old.

Sam stared at him. "Dean, it's all the way up to the neck. You got this stuff all over you, on your face?"

Dean finally seemed to catch on to the fact that Sam was upset and shut the computer. "Yeah, so? I washed it off."

Sam snorted and shook his head. "And what if it had gotten in your mouth, huh? That was reckless."

"Well, I'm a reckless kind of guy." Dean waved it off, reaching for the laptop again.

"No. No, you're not," Sam said, putting his hands on his hips. "You're a good hunter, Dean—you don't make stupid mistakes like this. Not since…"

Since Dad had died. Dean had gotten slipshod then as well, taking too few precautions and too many risks. That was Dean when he felt like he had nothing…left to…lose.

Oh.

Sam turned away, face growing hot.

"Whatever you're thinking, Sam, you're wrong," he heard sharply behind him.

Sam nodded, tilting his head to the side. "Right. So, you didn't do anything stupid while I was gone?"

There was a pause. "Define stupid."

Sam threw the bag down on the bed with a curse as he swung around. "Dean…"

Dean sat up quickly. "Hey, at least I kept hunting. You hung up your guns for, what, some crap minimum wage job? You seriously telling me that's any better?"

Sam glared back. "At least I wasn't throwing my life away!"

"You sure about that?"

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it again. The truth was, he didn't have a good answer to that, nor much standing to argue. Not like what he'd done had ended up any safer, good intentions notwithstanding. In fact, he'd just put Lindsay in danger along with him.

The thought deflated him, and he sank onto the edge of the bed, hands hanging between his legs. His laugh came out more sad than amused. "Yeah, I guess neither of us did so hot on our own, huh?"

There was a moment of silence. Then Dean offered, "I got Cas to go to a hooker."

That was so very far from what he'd expected to hear, Sam spluttered a laugh. "Castiel? Wait, what?"

Dean leaned back against the headboard, sliding easily into his cat-ate-the-canary attitude. "Before we summoned Raphael. He thought it was his last night on Earth, so I figured…"

Sam shook his head, still chortling. "Man, only you would think of getting an _angel_ deflowered."

"Not exactly," Dean admitted with chagrin. "Cas told the lady her dad only took off 'cause he was mad at his job, and she kicked him out."

His side was starting to hurt. Sam clasped a hand around it and tried to breathe. "Aw, man, I wish I'd been there."

Dean's grin faded. "Yeah. Me, too."

They both sobered, but the tension of before had evaporated, replaced by an easy companionship Sam had missed more than he could have ever said. All the apologies in the world couldn't have brought it back, but this, just being brothers, being together, maybe this would.

"Told you," Dean said, and it would've been cryptic if Sam hadn't known exactly what he meant. _We keep each other human. _And then some.

Sam nodded. "Yeah," he echoed softly. "Me, too."

**The End**


End file.
